Mahabodhi

They led him far along the starlit road,
where constellations walked the horizon’s edge,
and for ages untold had watched,
silent custodians of the night.
 
He had prepared himself—
a face forever lit with joy,
knowing that nothing was dearer
than the knowing itself.
Pride lifted like a banner in the wind,
awake beyond the waking,
drawing wisdom from the hollow air,
digging into hard earth with bare nails,
finding water in a barren land
by no machine,
only the old miraculous will.
 
This strange man had walked
half the turning world on foot;
the costliest treasures rose above all price,
and the fear of death was a heavier thing
than the fear of men—
and that, too, he had mastered.
Perhaps something would be,
perhaps not—
he stood unshaken either way,
granting existence no more weight
than the shadows it cast.
 
In the heritage of the unflinching,
he conquered pain;
in darkness, only the keen seal of recognition
was his light.
He had looked upon
a thousand years of history and fate
as clear as a mountain stream.
 
Man, in the press of his flesh-born cities,
had lost himself.
He saw their shame—
the shame of civilization’s dress,
the shattering sound of pride’s glass fall,
the pomp of royal falseness.
They could not bear him then,
as they cannot bear such men now.
 
In that ancient capital
stood the naked ascetic,
his gaze like a blade
drawn from the stars.
No comfort of earth
could halt his step,
his mind’s luxury was the only wealth he carried,
his will a lion’s roar.
 
To stop that lonely pilgrim
there was but one means—
steel in the soldier’s hand.
Like the chariots of empire
rolling through the ages,
they loosed arrow and sword from behind,
by the king’s decree.
The shaft lodged deep in his back,
the blow of the sword
stripped both arms from him like garments,
falling to dust on the road.
Yet he did not turn to see his slayer,
no cry, no wound in his smile—
what prophet was this,
whom sharpened steel could not unman?
 
Bleeding, smiling still,
he walked on by the road the stars had shown,
infinite resident of the eternal,
this rishi of India,
wandering through her fields and edges,
her mountains and caves,
the cradle of her rivers,
her deep, dark forests—
until the dust of civilization
clung to his form.
 
Eyes closed, yet vision whole,
his Mahabodhi remains in the earth’s story,
and he has never found the hour
to turn and look back.